“But what’s his claim?” persisted Prudence.
“Oh, that! To be sure, no one remembered his existence in the least, but it seems he’s a brother of old Barham, who died a month or two back. Odd, a’n’t it? I never heard of any brother, but it was all rather before my time, of course. Anyway, Cloverly was telling me he has all the papers to prove he’s the man, and a fine romantic story it all is. A jolt for Rensley, though!”
“Does Rensley acknowledge him?” Prudence found strength enough to inquire.
“As to that, Rensley’s lying low, I take it, but I believe he told Farnborough he was sure his cousin was dead, and that this man had stolen the papers. But Rensley would take that tone, y’know.” Mr Belfort perceived a friend close by, and was off to greet him.
“And what do you make of that?” said Prudence calmly in her brother’s ear.
Robin shook his head. “It’s the most consummate piece of impertinent daring — gad, it beats our masquerade!”
“But how can he carry it off? And for how long?”
“And why?” Robin demanded. “It’s senseless! Why?”
“Oh, the old love of a fine dramatic gesture. Don’t we know it? It’s to rank with the time he played the French Ambassador in Madrid. And he came off safe from that.”
“But this — this is England!” Robin said. “Cordieu, will you but look at him now?”